by Tony Kent
He had not been keen on the idea at the time. Now he was regretting it deeply.
The sound of chinking glass interrupted Michael’s thoughts. He looked up to see that the drinks were made and in Draper’s hands. She walked towards him and placed a tumbler of amber liquid on the table ahead of him, then placed her own glass next to his. Then she took a seat in the closest chair.
‘Sorry there’s no ice.’ Draper reached for her drink as she spoke. ‘But, you know . . .’
She indicated to the ice bucket that sat next to Michael’s glass. Michael’s right hand – the bleeding stopped – was inside it. The oldest remedy for a swollen fist.
‘Whisky doesn’t need ice,’ Michael replied unenthusiastically. He picked up his own glass with his good hand. ‘Only a heathen dilutes this stuff.’
Draper took a sip of her drink. Hers was a long glass, filled with clear liquid. The sip caused the barest grimace.
‘Maybe,’ Draper placed her drink down again. ‘But a gin and tonic definitely needs it.’
Draper reached out and placed her own hand into the ice bucket. Her skin touched against Michael’s as she picked out three ice cubes. The contact was not necessary and they both knew that.
‘How’s the hand?’
Draper dropped the ice cubes into her glass and stirred her drink, all without taking her eyes away from Michael.
‘It’ll survive,’ Michael replied, his eyes drifting to the ice bucket. He was cursing its necessity more with every word Draper spoke. It had become a virtual restraint, holding him in place.
‘I’ve never seen anyone get hit that hard,’ Draper said. Her admiration was making Michael increasingly uncomfortable. ‘He went down like a ton of bricks.’
‘Then you’re lucky, Jenny. You don’t need to be seeing that sort of thing in your life. It’s not . . . it’s not attractive.’
‘Not sure I agree with that,’ Draper said in a low, husky voice. ‘Where did you learn to fight like that?’
‘It’s not something to be proud of.’
Michael took another sip of his whisky.
I don’t like where this is going.
‘Now I definitely don’t agree with that!’ Draper laughed, rapping him lightly on the arm. ‘You dictated that fight. Everything that happened. You made it happen on your terms.’
‘No I didn’t. That wasn’t a film, Jenny. It wasn’t some choreographed bullshit where they come at you one at a time. It was mostly luck.’
Draper said nothing. She just stared at Michael with the hint of a smile. The fight was playing out in her mind. Michael could see that.
Except it’s not, he thought. Not the real one. In her mind it’s already changed. She’s already rewritten it.
‘Anyway, let’s not dwell on it,’ Michael continued. ‘It’s done. It’s over. So let’s move on.’
‘Where to?’
Draper said the words slowly. Deliberately. It was not a tone Michael had heard her use before. But it was one he recognised.
‘Jenny—’
Not waiting for Michael to finish, Draper reached out, took his damaged right hand from the ice bucket and lifted it towards her lips.
Michael pulled his hand away instantly, bashing his injured knuckle on Draper’s hand in the process. It sent a jolt of pain up his forearm.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘What we both want.’
Draper moved closer.
‘Jenny, stop,’ Michael said, his voice firm, but Draper seemed oblivious to his words.
‘I said STOP!’
This time Michael almost shouted. He rose to his feet in a hurry, throwing her off balance.
Draper was visibly shocked and confused by the rejection. She steadied herself as she stepped away from him. Michael had done much the same, so by the time Draper spoke they were half a room apart.
‘Michael, I . . . I . . . this was what you wanted?’
‘No, it wasn’t.’
‘But asking me for a drink? Bringing me back to your room?’
‘Jesus Christ, I didn’t ask you for a drink. I wanted to drink alone. You just insisted on joining me. And as for bringing you to my room, what choice did I have? You think I’d have just left you outside in the street, after what just happened?’
‘But why else . . .’ A look of horror appeared in Draper’s eyes. ‘Oh God, Michael. I didn’t . . . I didn’t . . .’
‘Look, it’s a misunderstanding.’ He felt a wave of sympathy towards Draper as he watched the reality of what she had done set in. The moment was suddenly so awkward that it was almost comical. ‘We can just forget about this.’
‘But I thought it was what you wanted.’ Draper sat down heavily onto her original seat. ‘I thought you wanted me.’
Michael stayed standing.
‘There’s only one woman I want,’ he answered, his tone certain. ‘And that’s Sarah.’
An uncomfortable silence filled the room. When Draper finally broke it her voice was weaker. Somehow younger.
‘Have I ruined this?’
‘Ruined what?’
‘Us? The work “us”, I mean. Have I broken up the team?’
‘No. No, not at all.’ Michael reached out for Draper’s hand. He took it and guided her up from the seat. Ignoring the pain of his injury. ‘All you’ve done is clear the air on something that was building. I should have done it myself a week ago but I was hoping it’d just pass. Now it’s done and we can just forget about it and move on. As friends.’
‘Still?’
‘Still, yeah. But just friends. And I think the kind of friends who don’t drink alone together in a hotel suite for a while.’
Draper smiled awkwardly, wiping away the few tears that had spilled over.
‘So time for me to go then?’
‘I think so.’
‘Do you mind if I clean myself up first?’
‘No problem. But I’m going to head down to the bar while you do that. Then you can let yourself out. OK?’
Michael moved away, picked up the room keycard from the table and headed towards the door.
‘I’ll see you on Monday.’
Draper returned his friendly smile and nodded.
‘See you Monday.’
SIXTY-SEVEN
It took Jenny Draper almost twenty minutes to leave Michael’s suite. To compose herself, both physically and emotionally.
The first of those had not taken long. Draper had just washed away the tear stains and re-applied her make-up. A quick fix.
It was the emotional fall-out that delayed her. She was not used to rejection. To a man saying ‘no’. It was hard to take, and more than a little confusing.
How the hell did I misread his signals so badly, Draper had thought to herself.
By the time the elevator opened into the hotel reception, the lesson had been learned. Humiliating, but valuable. She just hoped Michael’s reassurances had been genuine. That it would not make things awkward between them.
Draper walked through the reception and exited the hotel, onto the quiet cobbled street outside. She had not taken in her surroundings on arrival; she had been too jacked up on fear, excitement and adrenaline. Now she did, as she looked around to get her bearings. The large green to her left – Charterhouse Square – and the long, cobbled, antiquated road that led back to the Barbican and the nearest Tube station.
Feeling in need of a drink and some friendly support, she took out her mobile phone from her pocket, scrawled through a list of names and found the person most likely to be drinking locally.
Alyssa Johnson.
The connection was almost instant.
‘Where are you guys tonight?’
‘You’re coming here?’ Alyssa sounded surprised, even over the noise of the crowds around her. ‘What about your drinks with Michael?’
‘Yeah. That didn’t go the way I thought it would. And you won’t believe what happened before, either. I’ll tell you when I see you.’
‘What was it?”
‘I said I’ll tell you when I see you! Patience, Lysh!’
‘Okay, can’t wait. Love you.’
‘Yeah, love you too. See you soon.’
The disconnected call took Draper back to the home screen. A text from Michael had appeared while she had been speaking: Please don’t give what happened in the hotel a second’s thought. It doesn’t change a thing so don’t worry. We’re still good.
Draper smiled, typed ‘Thank you’ and pressed send. Putting the telephone back in her bag, she began to walk.
Maybe it would be OK.
The thought was interrupted and disproved in the same instant.
Draper did not have time to register the sound of a sliding van door. Grabbed by her suit jacket, she was dragged backwards with more force than she had ever experienced and thrown head-first into the darkness of the van.
SIXTY-EIGHT
The screen on Michael’s iPhone came to life, displaying a two-word text message: Thank you.
Short but complete. Michael smiled when he read it, hopeful that it drew a line under the awkwardness of the past half-hour.
The hotel’s small basement bar was dark, despite the long, hot summer nights outside. Michael had taken a tall stool. One of six that lined up against the front of the bar. Four of the other five were occupied. Two couples, it seemed. The stool chair next to Michael was empty.
Otherwise the bar was quiet. There were too many places nearby that were more suited to the good weather.
Michael looked up from his empty glass and caught the barman’s attention.
‘Same again?’
‘Please.’
Within a minute Michael’s glass was full. Yamazaki Sherry Cask 2013. No ice. A single drop of water. The barman knew what he was doing. A connoisseur’s drink, served the right way.
Not that Michael really cared tonight. Tonight, the alcohol content was all that mattered.
The first mouthful drained half the glass. As it had the previous one.
People drink for a variety of reasons. Some to savour the experience. Some because they must. For Michael it was something else. At least it was right now.
Michael was drinking to forget.
He looked at his right hand as he placed his glass back onto the bar. The swelling on his knuckles was getting worse. But the pain had gone. Temporarily, at least.
‘I’m glad it wasn’t you that needed to be mopped up in the street.’
The voice came from behind, the distinctive accent now impossible to miss.
Michael turned to see Joelle Levy as she stepped off the staircase and into the bar. It took her just three or four more steps to reach him. He stood up as she approached and indicated the seat next to him.
‘They were still there when your guys arrived then?’ Michael asked.
Levy took the seat offered. Michael retook his own.
‘They weren’t going anywhere quickly,’ Levy replied. ‘That was an impressive amount of damage you did, Michael.’
‘Not like I had a choice. Self-defence, three against one. Everything I did was reasonable.’
‘You don’t have to defend yourself to me, counsel.’ Levy caught the barman’s eye and signalled him over. ‘No one’s going to suggest your actions were anything but legal.’
Levy indicated Michael’s glass and asked what it was. Michael told her. She turned to the barman.
‘Two more of those, please.’
Then back to Michael.
‘What I meant is you’re bloody lucky it was O’Driscoll and his stupid friends who came for you. At least you can see that sort coming. What if it had been Hirst?’
‘Hirst isn’t going to be anywhere public,’ Michael replied. ‘Not after you’ve plastered his face all over every news outlet in the country. He could stand next to the Pope and still be the first one recognised.’
Michael did not know if Levy bought his nonchalance. He certainly did not; his only regret about the afternoon’s violence was that it had not involved Hirst.
‘That doesn’t mean you’re safe,’ Levy replied. ‘He’s a ruthless son of a bitch. And he’ll still be trying to find a way to come for you. You know that.’
Michael took a gulp of his whisky, emptying what was left in the glass. Just in time, as the barman returned with two more. Michael turned back to Levy.
‘I was sorry to hear about Inspector Hale,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘I could tell that you were close.’
‘Yeah, we were. Steve was a good man. And a great friend.’ Levy picked up her glass and held it outwards. Towards Michael. ‘What is it you say in Ireland? Sláinte, right?’
‘Close enough.’ Michael lifted his own glass. Clinked it against Levy’s. ‘L’chaim. And to Steven Hale, may God rest him.’
‘Thanks. Truly.’
Levy took a sip of her drink. Then a second sip – a larger one – before placing her glass on the bar. Levy seemed to be steeling herself to say something, and when she finally spoke she seemed relieved.
‘Michael, I’m not going to arrest you for what happened at Hirst’s trial.’
‘What?’ The statement was the last thing Michael had expected to hear. ‘Why not?’
‘Because no one else knows. No one but you, me and Sarah. And frankly that piece of shit deserved – he deserves – everything done to him. So don’t worry. Once this is over, it’s over.’
‘That’s kind of you. I appreciate it.’
‘Don’t appreciate anything. In fact, don’t mention it again. Ever.’
‘Is that what you came here to tell me?’
‘That, and to make sure you’re looking after yourself. So I can tell Sarah. She’s done nothing but worry about you, but she says you’ve not been taking her calls.’
Michael felt a pang of guilt at Levy’s words.
‘It’s been a struggle,’ he began to explain. ‘I can’t face her. If I’d only checked on Hirst – if I’d not been complacent that he was inside – then Derek would still be alive. I can’t accept that myself, so how can I ask Sarah to? Derek was her friend, too.’
‘That’s bullshit,’ Levy interrupted. ‘We had two guys on Derek’s house until the Wisdom Penfold theory went south. We wouldn’t have increased that number for Hirst if we’d known about him, and after what happened in Manchester do you really think two would have been enough? Because I sure as hell don’t. Hirst would have walked through those guys and he would have still got to Derek. All that happened by you not clicking earlier is that two officers got to live.’
Michael tried to find some comfort in her words. What she had said was almost certainly true. That Hirst would have got to Derek regardless; he would have made short work of the two cops assigned to his home. But the guilt remained, and it would take time to fade.
‘Call her, Michael,’ Levy continued. ‘Let her know you’re OK.’
Levy looked Michael up and down.
‘You are OK, aren’t you?’
Michael shook his head before speaking.
‘I’m separated from my family at the most stressful time of our lives. All I can think about is their safety. That and my best friend’s mutilated corpse. So am I OK? No. No, I’m not. But I can still look after myself. I can still keep myself safe.’
Levy nodded, taking another sip of her drink.
‘I do know you can take care of yourself, Michael. You know that, right?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean I know who you are. Where you’re from. So I know Hirst isn’t coming after some ten-stone weakling.’
‘How much do you know?’
‘I’ve got the highest possible clearance at Scotland Yard. And anything they don’t want to tell me, do you think I spent that many years in Shin Bet without picking up a few tricks? I know the lot. Joe Dempsey. Joshua. And Liam.’
Michael leaned back in his seat.
Clearance or no clearance, you don’t know everything, he thought. If you did you’d have pu
t Anthony Haversume at the top of that list.
‘If you know all of that, why are you still so worried about me?’
‘Because you’re out here on your own this time. I know how much you can handle, but this time you don’t have your brother next to you. Or Joe Dempsey backing you up. Hirst is dangerous. Lethal. Look what he did to Hale.’
‘We knew that anyway,’ Michael replied. ‘But I’ve made my decision. So please tell Sarah I’m fine. And please, no mention of what happened tonight with O’Driscoll.’
‘Both of those things go without saying. But you should be telling her yourself.’
‘I know. And I will.’
Michael downed what was left of his glass, stood up and indicated to the barman.
‘Put all this on my room, would you?’
‘Yessir.’
‘Thanks.’
Back to Levy.
‘I’m going back to my room, Joelle. I need to eat. Why don’t you head home to your son? Put this all out of your mind for one night and have some family time?’
‘I can’t.’ Levy got to her feet. ‘I wish I could.’
‘Then just do it. Life’s too short. Go home and spend some time with your boy.’
Levy nodded as Michael took the first step on the staircase.
‘And Joelle?’ Michael’s voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘Thank you for the news. About what I did at Hirst’s trial, I mean. I really do appreciate that.’
‘Forget it. We couldn’t try you without Hirst anyway, and that piece of shit won’t be seeing the inside of a witness box,’ Levy’s voice was grim but certain. ‘Especially not after what he did to Hale.’
SIXTY-NINE
It was 2 a.m. when Michael awoke. A lot earlier than he had planned. His unconsciousness fought back hard as he tried to open his eyes. It made the world seem unreal for a few seconds. Reality masquerading as a dream. Only the insistent ringing of Michael’s mobile phone pulled him through.
Michael’s Friday night had not mirrored his Thursday. After parting company with Levy he had returned to his room, where he had undressed and ordered a meal. One look at the menu had reminded him of when he had last eaten. Thursday lunchtime. Far too long.
